One
by Nova Hainn
Summary: A word can mean many things. Oneshot series.
1. Flowers

In which Ahiru and Fakir discuss old feelings, Fakir explains his promise, and they add to their weekly calendar.

* * *

Flowers

Fakir liked to take Ahiru to school with him. He couldn't always — not all of his teachers approved of a duck sitting in their classroom, however silent she was, and one or two had allergies — but he tried to bring her along as much as possible. She missed being a girl, and he knew that. She liked seeing the students milling around, she liked to see Pike and Lilie go about their daily mischief, and she liked it when Fakir spoke to people she knew as a girl so she could see how they were. He wasn't the most sociable person, but he did it, for her. It was the least he could do after his treatment of her (which she had forgiven him for, but he hadn't forgiven himself yet).

Because of this, he was caught off-guard when she quacked shrilly and fluttered away upon spotting another old friend of her's.

"Hey, Ahiru!" She ignored him, diving into a bush. The students around them glanced quizzically. They were used to Fakir's pet duck by now, even if they found it - "her", as he had corrected them — strange. She was cute, and she let them pat her head and feed her, and Fakir was nicer with her around, so they didn't mind.

The friend looked over at the sound, catching Fakir's eye, her face brightening as she waved at him pleasantly. Fakir waved back with a nod. She shifted the flowers in her arms and walked away. Fakir glanced between the girl and the bushes where Ahiru was wriggling around. Something fell into place and he couldn't help the cheeky smirk that passed over his features.

This was going to be fun.

* * *

"So, what was that about?"

She started, shifting on the desk and feigning confusion. He raised an eyebrow. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. Why did you hide from Freya? I thought she was your friend."

"Qua?"

"Of course I know her. She was in one of the higher ballet classes, they mixed us up sometimes."

Her eyes brightened; she pointed at him. "Qua?"

"Did I dance with her?"

Ahiru nodded.

"A couple times. She's a good dancer." He put his quill down, crossing his arms and watching her accusingly. "But we're going off topic."

She shuffled, looking nervous. If it wasn't for her feathers, he was sure she would have blushed; it was the same look she'd get as a girl. She muttered some quacks.

Fakir was impatient, so he opted to help her. "You like her, don't you?"

She squawked loudly, turning away from him with her bill in the air. He chuckled. "I _knew_ it."

"Quack!" She turned towards him again, ruffling her feathers in embarrassment. He laughed. She looked a right state.

Her confirmation made something twist in his chest, but he ignored it. He decided instead to tease her. He hadn't been able to in awhile. "So on a scale of one to ten, how much do you like her? We'll start on five, five being… _almost_ liking her, romantically."

She seemed to think, glancing upwards before making a downward gesture. "Less?" She nodded.

"Four?" No.

"Three?" She nodded again. "So you… had a crush on her?" he said carefully. The word felt odd on his tongue; he wasn't used to such conversation. She ruffled her feathers, muttering again. _Yes._

The knot in his chest loosened. It made him feel guilty.

"I can understand why you would," he continued, ignoring the feeling in the pit of his stomach, "She's pretty, and sweet. And she's good at ballet."

She nodded vigorously. He sighed. "Do you…?"

Ahiru blinked, before jumping up and waddling towards him, poking his arm with her bill and shaking her head. She pointed a wing at him. " _I'm with you, silly."_

"That's got nothing to do with it." The guilty feeling wrung him. "Let me tell you a secret." He rested his head on his folded arms. She sat down in front of him. "When I was younger, before I started being horrible to him, I liked Mytho. He was a bit stupid and did reckless things, but I thought he was _amazing_. It went away after awhile; it's hard to truly love someone without a heart. That's what made Rue special to him; she always loved him, no matter what." He shifted in his chair. "But when we saw them off, when I talked to him — even though it was for all of five minutes really — but with all his heart shards back, some of those old feelings came back. They're gone now, and I didn't say anything about it because it didn't really matter."

Ahiru nodded slowly, absorbing the information. "What I'm trying to say is… even if you're with me, it's fine if you still like Freya. You're human on the inside. It's not something you can control. And…" He paused to stroke the top of her head, poking the odd cowlick. "If you want to go with her, that's fine." She started, already shaking her head. "What I mean is, I'll help you. I promised to stay by your side, and I will. If that means explaining it to her, then so be it. I'll _always_ have your back. I'll never abandon you."

He sat up, tugging on his collar a bit with nervousness. He hadn't meant to say so much, but it had worked; the guilt had loosened along with the twist. Granted, the idea of Ahiru leaving him stung, and considerably so, but her happiness was more important to him. No matter how many times she told him otherwise, Fakir knew that he was a coward at heart, and he didn't deserve to drag her down with him.

She butted up against his arm, shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders. Although they didn't have the power to turn her back into a girl, sometimes that old spark came back and let him hear her thoughts. This was one of those times.

" _I'm here to stay. I never got the chance to like Freya properly because of everything that was going on. It's just a bunch of old feelings. I'm here to stay."_

He stared down at her, wondering how he had gotten so lucky. But he had to make sure _she_ was sure. "If you'd gotten the chance, do you think it would've become something more?"

The spark was gone, but she could still gesture. She waved her wing, tilting her head from side to side.

"Maybe?" She nodded and shrugged. "You don't know. I guess you can't."

She squinted up at him before letting her wings fall into the mime for love. He sighed. "I'm sorry. For being annoying about it."

She shook her head at him. "Qua!"

He smiled. "Idiot."

" _Quack!_ "

They'd be fine.

* * *

Friday had Fakir walking towards the back of the academy, where there was a large statue and a small crop of flowers. A blonde girl danced among them, watering can in hand. Ahiru twittered on his shoulder.

He walked towards her, stopping where the flowers began and looking around. Freya had done a marvellous job with them, as usual. She twirled again, stopping when she caught sight of him. "Oh, Fakir! I didn't see you there."

"Freya. Good to see you."

Freya nodded. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly as she noticed Ahiru. "Is that your duck?"

"Well, she's not _mine_ , per se…" He picked Ahiru up, holding her in his arms. She shifted, looking up at him. He smiled reassuringly. "This is Ahiru."

"What a lovely name…" Freya stepped towards them carefully, putting the watering can down on the cobbled ground. She bent down to Ahiru's level. "I feel like we've met before. Is that odd?"

Ahiru quacked quietly in response, burrowing deeper into Fakir's arms. Freya hummed. "My flowers like you." She stroked the top of her head. Fakir held Ahiru out to her. Freya looked between them, before asking Ahiru, "May I?"

Ahiru nodded. Freya picked her up and carried her into the flowers, sitting down among the coloured petals. Fakir smiled as he watched them frolic. Freya seemed to remember, somewhat. _Good_.

* * *

It became a Friday thing; Fridays with Freya. They would visit her, and the girls would tend to the flowers or sit and chat while Fakir sat down with his back against the statue and write, or simply watch them. Sometimes they would make flower crowns, upon which they would convince Fakir to wear one as well, which he did until they left. Sometimes Freya whipped up a bouquet and came along home for dinner, where Karon would thank her for the flowers and for watching over Fakir and his pet. Sometimes, at Ahiru's request, Fakir and Freya danced, and then one of them would pick her up and twirl her, just as she used to do. Sometimes Autor and Athelina would visit, and Athelina would comment on the strange duck, wondering how she understood everything but knowing deep down that she was wonderful, somehow. Once, they spotted Pike and Lilie spying on them from around the corner, and Freya invited them in, Ahiru greeting them warmly. Sometimes the two odd girls visited too, wondering why they got along so well with a _duck_.

Fakir hadn't thought that he'd become such good friends with Freya, but he had. It was hard not to, really. He could see why Ahiru liked her. A few of the students started a rumour that he and Freya were a couple, to which they both laughed as Ahiru quacked boisterously. They didn't mind.

The room he shared with Ahiru seemed to constantly be decorated with flowers now, somehow, and they wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

I always thought Freya and Fakir would make good friends, and although I live for fakiru I do love some good freyahiru too (I have mimimonart on tumblr to thank for that). Love me some fakiru conversations where they discuss things maturely. And I do love Freya.

Athelina is what I always call Anteaterina. I know people typically call her Erina but I like the name a lot, and I can't remember the meaning but it suited the character.

If anyone who read _In Knots_ comes looking for it, my explanation is this: I took it down so that I could write it all then start posting cuz if not I'll update once every other century, if you're lucky. I'll post it again eventually.

This'll be a oneshot series, mostly fakiru stuff but something else every so often depending on what I come up with. All my PT oneshots will be compiled here. Until next time!


	2. Tiny

In which Ahiru hides in lots of different places.

* * *

Tiny

He opened the door, and there she was.

She pulled away, her hands over her mouth muffling a sharp "Qua-!", eyes wide and widening, face red and reddening. "It's not what it looks like!"

He didn't really know what it looked like. He had opened the low cupboard to retrieve a spare ballet uniform (his was in laundry), and had found her huddled among shirts and leotards, braid tangled between arms and legs but somehow fitting neatly into the tiny space. He had no idea what to make of it.

Instead, he grabbed a shirt and closed the door again, which immediately slammed open. The redhead crawled out, red in the face, livid. What did she expect him to do?

"Why'd you do that for?!"

"What else did you want me to do?"

"Well, you should've… You could've… _hmph_!" she grumbled, pouting and wringing her hands like a child.

He turned away. "Moron."

"I am _not_ -"

The door to the room snapped shut behind him.

* * *

He knew who she was, sort of. The clumsy girl was hard to miss, especially in the mixed ballet classes where the teacher would almost constantly threaten her with marriage, and her two friends would drag her away, the (psychotic) blonde one giggling. She was always distracted, and very distracting, stumbling about the place and disrupting lessons, always staying behind as punishment and mopping the floors. Sometimes, he pitied her. Mostly, he didn't care.

It had been an odd encounter, but was of no importance so it didn't matter in the end. He'd probably see her around again and nothing would change.

He certainly did not expect to find her in a cupboard full of cleaning supplies. Specifically, curled on a shelf _above his head_ (how she had gotten up there was beyond him, she was _so short_ ), blue eyes shining in the dark. Glaring too.

He looked up at her. She glared back, before sticking her tongue out at him and shuffling back again.

He grabbed the mop (someone had spilled water all over the corridor floor) and backtracked out, muttering, "Idiot."

She shot forwards, nails scraping against wood, red pendant almost smacking him in the face, screeching "I'm not a- QUACK!" before tipping off the shelf and slamming into the floor.

He only stayed long enough to check that she hadn't injured herself, and then hastened away.

It was very different to be face-to-face from below than from above.

* * *

After that, he saw her in some classes, in the hallways with her two giggling friends, being strangled by the (insane) blonde, in a shop across the street perusing bird seed, and jammed between a door and a locker after rolling down the hallway like a tyre. They exchanged meaningfully hostile looks and some scathing remarks, as well as the frequent "idiot" or "moron". He once told her that she acted like a duck, which prompted her to attempt to smack him and instead crash into his chest. He would have been more annoyed about the whole thing if he hadn't noticed the (deranged) blonde sneakily shove her from behind.

The one place he was certain that he would never run into her was the boys' dormitories, as they were strictly off-limits to all girls (and vice versa). He was thankful for that, as some of his fellow students had a few odd habits (he was very tired of seeing rose petals _everywhere_ ) and it would have been a hassle, what with her explosively, dangerously nervous reactions.

That's why, when he heard a distinctive squeak _from his bathroom_ , he very nearly flipped a table.

And there she was, huddled inside his (thankfully empty) washing basket. She had the decency to look embarrassed, if not slightly contrite.

"It's not what it looks like."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, not knowing whether to throw a fit or simply kick her out and never look her way again. He had resolved to shoo her away when she mumbled, "I'm hiding from them."

He looked back at her, thrown completely off. "From who?"

She told him about some of the boys he shared the kitchen and living spaces with. She told him about how they just teased her at first, for being so clumsy; they tripped her up, they kicked the bucket full of water which she used to mop the floors after class. She told him how they watched her practise ballet sometimes, messing with the music player and pushing her around. How they locked her in a bathroom with a broken light once, and left her in the dark for hours. How she hid sometimes when she saw them, just in case, in the cupboard full of spare ballet uniforms or cleaning supplies, because she was small and she could fit. How they'd dragged her to one of their rooms to force her to dance for them, upon which she'd fled and hid in the first room she could run into without being spotted, jumping into the laundry basket and hoping that it didn't belong to one of them.

He said nothing, and left. There were shouts. A scuffling across the corridor floor went unnoticed. When he came back, the basket was empty and tipped over.

He was almost disappointed, walking back out of his room and closing the door behind him. A shimmer caught his eye. A few metres away from him, a red pendant was on the floor, silver chain unclasped. It had nearly smacked him in the face once. A door a little further ahead was open.

It was the laundry room, and she was inside the dryer. This time, he wasn't surprised. She smiled shyly out to him as he raised an eyebrow.

"They won't bother you anymore."

She nodded slowly, mumbling a quiet "thank you" before attempting to pull herself out. He watched her for half a second before pulling her out himself, marvelling at how _small_ she was in his arms.

"S-sorry for running away," she breathed when he set her down, and she attempted to clasp her pendant back on, "I heard the shouting and I thought someone would realise that I was in your room, one of them, and I didn't want that, especially because they might make a mess, so I ran, but I didn't want to go too far so that I could thank you…" she babbled away. He half-listened, watching her turn around and around while fiddling with the tricky clasp. When she finally managed, she turned back to him, fidgeting.

"Well, I-I'll be off then. Thanks again. It really means a lot to me."

"It's fine. I wasn't just going to act like nothing happened, idiot." He rolled his eyes at her, not quite keeping the small, secret smile off his face. She pouted, but her eyes sparkled.

Only when he watched as her braid followed her round the corner did he realise he hadn't asked for her name.

* * *

He knocked on the door of the sculpting room, where he had been sent to retrieve a missing ballet student (" _She's very tall,"_ the teacher had said, " _You'll know her when you see her"_ ). A gruff voice told him to come in, and he did, eyes skimming over the half-finished sculpture of a tall girl, arabesque, with wings; the model herself ( _the missing ballet student?_ ); and the sculptor who was steadily reddening more and more, before resting on the swinging orange braid across the room. The owner of the braid stood on a stool, almost en pointe trying to reach for the box of sculpting tools on the top shelf. His hand shot past hers, pulling it down. She almost fell right off in shock, with a sharp "Quack!", face red.

She grabbed the box and scurried away, leaving it with the sculptor before scurrying back, grabbing his hand and dragging him out of the room.

"I'm _supposed_ to be taking that girl back to ballet."

"You can't, they're not finished."

"Not my problem."

" _Don't_ interrupt."

"Why not?"

She looked back and forth down the corridor, before whispering, "They're… _lovey-dovey_."

He stared at her, recalling a small girl with a drum, before snorting and turning away. She huffed, stomping her foot.

"Whatever," he said, turning back to her, "Go make yourself useful and hide in a cupboard, idiot."

She sputtered, stomping after him as he walked down the hallway.

It was a beautiful day.

* * *

I'm back! I actually wrote this one before _Flowers_ but I was very excited about the other one so posted that one instead. Already working on another one which I'm even more excited for. Until then!


	3. Teleport

In which Ahiru makes a mistake, but gets lucky.

* * *

Teleport

Usually Fakir berated himself for staying up late writing, but today he was thankful that he had done so. Really, if he hadn't turned right at that moment he wouldn't have seen the flash of red light just over his bed; only heard the high-pitched squawk of surprise and the "kya!", along with the thump of the mattress. He stared, jaw slack, as the redhead groaned and mumbled, rubbing her back. She seemed to freeze suddenly, then slowly, very slowly, look up, blue meeting green in joint shock.

"Hh!" She scurried backwards on the bed, the sheets bunching under her palms. She almost lost her balance and tumbled right off, reddening so that her face was bright even in the dim light. She stuttered pitifully. "I-I-I-I'm s-so s-s-sorry! I-I really- That is- I mean- I didn't mean to- Oh dear, this is terrible- I just- Ahh-!"

Fakir cleared his throat and swallowed. "You're…?" he gestured towards the staff in her hand. She only yelped and muttered further. He sighed. Best to start with something we both know… "You… live across the street."

She looked up at that, eyes wide, nodding slowly. "Y-Yes…" She seemed to start before shrieking, "You can't tell anyone!"

He recoiled at the high pitch, wanting to look affronted but failing pitifully because, honestly, the look on her face. "I won't…" he started, pausing for thought. Where could you possibly go with such a conversation? "It's not any of my business."

"Well, it kind of is now, isn't it…" She gripped the staff with both hands, squeezing it, her knuckles turning white. "I'm so sorry, I was trying to- Well, clearly- or not? Maybe it's not clear at all, it's not everyday a witch appears in your room at two in the morning, on your bed- Your bed!" she shrieked, leaping off and landing gracelessly on the rug. Her pointy hat toppled off; she plucked it out of the air with surprising dexterity and popped it right back on. He stared at it; there was a large, blue and yellow bow tied around it, lacy and dainty. It made the large patches in her dress almost fade away.

Fakir sighed, closing his notebook and shoving it and the pen into a drawer. The longer she stayed the more fidgety she seemed to get, and adorable as her nervousness was he didn't want her to faint. "I'll walk you home."

She jumped at the statement, waving her hands with a shaky smile. "No, that's really not necessary-"

"After you," he interrupted, gesturing towards the open door. Her mouth snapped shut and she scurried past him, waiting in the corridor for him to walk ahead of her.

The chill made them both shiver as they hurried across the deserted street, the girl trotting to keep up with his longer strides (he'd known she was short, but this was ridiculous). Her house looked much like his own, as did all the others on their street, but it had touches that were undeniably hers; the wind chime hanging from the window, the flowerpots littering the porch, the flowery vines wrapped around the balustrades. The pretty doormat with "Welcome Home" written on it colourfully, little boats sewn around the lettering. The spare key pulled out from under said doormat, a duck keychain attached.

The door swung open and she hopped over the threshold, turning back towards him. She seemed to pause in thought, before blurting out, "Do you want to come in?"

He blinked. She twiddled her fingers. "W-Well, I have to explain myself, don't I… a-and I thought…" she trailed off, glancing up at him, before looking away and biting her lip.

Fakir looked away quickly, willing himself to reply as nicely as possible. "Fine." He mentally kicked himself; that was the farthest thing from nice I could have said other than insults.

Her face seemed to brighten up as she ushered him in, babbling, all awkwardness apparently evaporated. "I'm Ahiru, by the way. Everyone always finds it weird, because it means 'duck', but it's not as weird as my sister; her name is Tutu. Tutu! Our parents must have hated us, or maybe they were weird too. At least they had the foresight to call me Ahiru instead of just Duck, though some people call me that as a nickname, Lilie says it sometimes when she teases me, but it's not in a mean way, and…" she rambled on, pottering into the kitchen, dropping the staff into what looked like an umbrella stand and hanging her hat on a hook, exchanging it for a polka-dotted apron, cowlick bobbing as she did so. She fumbled with the strings, turning back to him, looking sheepish. "Sorry. I talk a lot when I'm nervous. Please sit."

"I don't mind," he said quickly, pulling out a stool at the island in the middle of the room. And he didn't, not really; other people's chatter always felt idle and annoyed him, but Ahiru's wasn't as bad. A sister named Tutu. Strange. He watched as she opened cupboards filled with pretty glass jars, the kinds found in the home decor sections at the nearby shops, in which there seemed to be ingredients of every kind - some looked like herbs, others strange liquids, and others like grains or even small precious stones. She pulled some out, pulling a tablespoon out of a drawer as she did and hazardously throwing spoons of the ingredients into the bubbling cauldron on the stove. The smoke changed from a brown into a pleasant greenish hue. He cocked his head as he watched. "I'm Fakir. You seem very… stereotypical."

"What?" She turned slightly as she rummaged through another drawer, pulling out several dish towels. She bunched them together into makeshift oven gloves and lifted the cauldron off the heat, putting it instead onto a chopping board. She poked at the wood. "I had to put a charm on these, I kept setting them on fire, took me ages… And yeah, if you mean the pointy hat and cauldron, I am very stereotypical. It helps me focus because I relate these things to witchcraft. Not that it helps a lot…" She crouched, pulling open another cupboard and throwing the dish towels over her shoulder so that they landed on the island. There were several clatters and mutters before she pulled out a plastic container. Dropping the tupperware into the sink, she rummaged around the cutlery drawer again before pulling out a ladle and a permanent marker. "The ladle shouldn't be in here, stupid…" Fakir watched her progress. There was nothing ominous or wise about her at all; she must have been the oddest, sweetest, most domestic little witch he'd ever seen. And the only real one, movies don't count for much. She held the container over the sink, ladling the potion into it and observing it before filling it to the brim and putting the lid on. "Good thing the plastic didn't melt like last time…" She turned as she scrawled on the lid with the marker. "I don't have any nice jars or bottles left, need to buy more… This is a gift for a friend, actually; she has a nice flower shop but lately they haven't been growing very well. I'll sprinkle some of this onto them without her noticing and it'll be fixed up in a jiffy." She pushed the dish towels to one side with the container, throwing the pen onto them and pulling up a stool of her own. "I actually wanted to practise teleporting while the potion brewed, but as you know that didn't go so well…" She threw the apron onto the pile of dish towels.

"So are there… more of you?" Fakir asked carefully.

Ahiru waved her hand. "Way more, we're everywhere, you just don't know it. There are probably a couple in the neighbourhood, but we hide it so well that we never really know. It's a miracle I haven't been discovered yet. Although…" she looked at him pointedley, "I technically have."

"I won't tell anyone." He shifted on the stool.

"Thank you. And I'm really sorry about-"

"It's fine. I was awake anyway."

"Yes, I saw… You write?"

"Don't ask too many questions."

"Sorry." They fell into silence, Ahiru tracing circles in the wood with her finger. "So… do you want pancakes?"

He stared incredulously. "At two in the morning?"

"Yes," she quipped, pushing off the chair, "You're here anyway, might as well."

He paused, eyeing her - her mussed braid and her freckles and her patchy dress - before heaving a sigh and propping an elbow on the island. "Okay. Pancakes sound great."

She beamed. There was a gap between her front teeth. "Yay! Pancakes are one of the few things I don't mess up at two in the morning."

"You cook regularly at two?"

"No, just- hh!" She gasped as the flour spilled onto the counter, a white cloud billowing into the air. She waved a hand at it, coughing. Some of the flour settled on her head, making her ginger hair look almost peach-coloured. She flashed him an embarrassed grin.

He shook his head at her. "Idiot."

She threw some flour at his face in response.

* * *

Two in one day, yay! I'm on a roll!

I most certainly intend to write more oneshots for this AU, I just really like it already, but it's not gonna have a real plot for it to be a full fic so I'll just post those on tumblr… Might post them here if they're good as stand alones, or if I feel like it. Until next time!


	4. Alternate

In which Nadja habitually communes with her other, ghostly parents.

* * *

"Do you think we should just… talk to her?"

"I don't see what else we can do."

"She hasn't told her parents that she saw us yet, right?"

"I don't think so. Ahiru will be surprised to see me."

"No one'll know who I am, though."

"I'm sure they can figure it out. Fakir looks just like you."

"And everyone calls him handsome."

"Oh, you-"

"You two do know that I can hear you, right?"

They look down at the girl laying on the ground before them, arms and legs spread out on the long grass, giving them a sidelong stare with an eyebrow raised.

Lohengrin shrieks at the statement, jumping back. Tutu watches him blankly. "What a courageous knight."

"Oh, quiet," he grumbles, sticking out his tongue. "Not everyone is a magical ballerina princess with perfect poise and composure."

"I'm still here, you two." They drop down next to her on the grass. Nadja watches them warily. "What are you doing here? I didn't think you could come and go as you pleased. That's what Genie said."

"Genie is a smart girl," Tutu replies, smoothing her skirt. "When you summoned us, daughter mine, you broke the barrier."

Nadja sighs, rolling her eyes. "Seems like everyone is breaking barriers lately." But something in her manner changes; her shoulders relax, her eyes lose their menacing glint, she veers from Fakir to Ahiru in the blink of an eye.

Lohengrin smiles lopsidedly. "You really are your parents' daughter."

"And yours, by extension."

Tutu and Lohengrin redden simultaneously. Nadja's airy laugh is caught by the breeze and thrown into the sky.

* * *

"Okay, okay, you're all very hungry, give me a minute…"

Fakir pulls the sack of oats down from the top shelf (it had been previously at the bottom until the ducklings had discovered a way to open it) and tips it over slightly, letting them fall into his hand. The ducklings quack boisterously at his feet. He squats and they pile instantly into his lap. "Slow down, there's more than enough for everyone." He observes them peck at his palm, devouring the oats at a rapid pace then quacking for more. "If you'd eat from a bowl we wouldn't have this problem…" he mutters as he pours more.

"That's cute, reincarnation."

Fakir jumps, spilling the oats on the counter. He tugs the sack upwards to avoid further spillage and whips around in the direction of the foreign voice. "Who the hell-"

"Mind your language in front of the kids."

Fakir stares at Lohengrin - or, more specifically, right through him. Lohengrin rubs the back of his head, a sheepish smile spreading over his features. "I probably should've given a warning before appearing like this. Sorry about the mess."

"That's- fine…" The ducklings, having fluttered (or clambered) their way onto the counter, proceed to climb up Fakir's shoulders. The eldest one deposits herself on his head, and Fakir momentarily compares her haughty superiority with Adhelle's. He pushes one of them onto his shoulder when it almost slips off. "What are you…?"

"Well, I came to see Nadja," Lohengrin says, as if it were the most obvious information in the world.

Fakir's instincts flare at the mention of his daughter. "What do you-"

"She isn't even here, Lohen, honestly-" Tutu calls loudly as she comes around the corner, stopping when she catches sight of the incarnations. "Oh. Hello, Fakir. Nice to see you again."

"Tutu… what-?"

"We came to see Nadja."

The front door creaks open and snaps shut. "I'm home! Is anyone here-?" Nadja pulls up short upon entering the kitchen, observing the scene before her.

"Daughter mine! We came to visit!" Lohengrin says cheerily. Fakir sputters, the ducklings on his head and shoulder quacking energetically. Tutu smiles weakly.

Nadja mirrors her expression. "Well… I guess I have some explaining to do?"

* * *

This is actually one of two oneshots I wrote for LohenTutu week; the last day was Alternate Universe. This oneshot is Alternate, and the one I will post after it is Universe, and they are both from AUs of mine. Anyone who's on tumblr and follows blueberryhope may have caught wind of the PT Kids AU, which is exactly what it sounds like, and is a collaboration between anyone who wants to join in - I started it, though. For those who don't know, I'll explain: Nadja is the eldest of two fakiru kids, Adhelle (mentioned at one point) is the eldest of four ruetho kids, and Genie (short for Genevieve and also mentioned at one point) is the only autor/erina kid. At one point in the AU, Nadja (with Genie's help) summons Tutu and Lohengrin's ghosts to ask for advice and magic and swordsmanship and whatnot, and they call her "daughter mine" ever since cuz of her resemblance to them (since fakiru are their reincarnations and all). All the details are on my tumblr, under the #pt kids ( novahainn). Hope you enjoyed!


	5. Universe

In which Edel makes a choice and falls into long-awaiting arms.

* * *

Edel blinks down at the still figure on the cobblestones before looking left and right for something, anything, that could guide her. If I had emotions, she thinks solemnly, I would probably be worried right now. Fakir groans, shivering in the biting cold, drenched through and drunk on the pain of his many wounds. Edel had watched over Drosselmeyer's shoulder as Kraehe's minions tore through the poor boy, and for the first time in… well, who knew how long it had been, she had snuck away through the shadows and disobeyed her master's orders. She knows he is watching her. No matter how enthralling the battle of wills between Tutu and Kraehe is, Edel knows he is always watching. Waiting.

Something gleams off to the left — a lone torch. She sprints, all of her usual grace discarded just like her usual guard. Although she cannot feel the panic, she knows that she should, and she knows that she must act quickly. She skids to a halt next to Fakir again, holding the torch close to his body and watching the effect. After a beat, he curls towards it, whimpering slightly, tucking his arms and legs closer to his body until he mimics a foetal position. Edel sighs; the torch is not enough, and there is no wood anywhere nearby.

An ember falls onto her hand, singing the paint on her wooden body. She doesn't feel it, only wipes it off, before staring down at the ashen mark close to her thumb. She pauses. Certainly the desired effect of warming Fakir would be achieved, but what of her soul? There is no Oak Tree left to build her a body from, but she doesn't put it past Drosselmeyer to store her soul in a jar or some odd contraption, or even to use the other twig-like puppets he had made to "keep her company". "Either way," she mumbles, putting the torch down to nudge Fakir back into lying down straight, "I have no choice. I must save him."

She picks up the torch again, holding it against her chest. A plume of smoke twists into the dark sky.

* * *

She watches Tutu — Ahiru — and Mytho dance, the phantom ballerinas pirouetting around them, the feathers in their hair fluttering in the light breeze. Fakir sits over by the fountain, hunched over, smiling just a little as he watches the performance. Edel observes him as the firelight casts striking shadows across his features, his green eyes slightly dimmed of their usual intensity due to exhaustion. She notes his sharp jawline and his loose, dark hair. Dark green. It seems that Lohengrin's few dyed strands filtered into his reincarnation along with his black hair. She remembers the strands, dyed with some sort of concoction to look like her own mint-coloured hair, mingling with the darker strands in his long ponytail. And here Fakir sits with dark green hair, almost as if… as if he were our child.

The realisation ploughs straight into her chest, leaving her unable to breath for a few moments before she blinks again. She curses Drosselmeyer under her breath for mocking them so. She stares at the boy, committing his every feature to memory, just in case the stories of the deceased watching over their loved ones aren't true at all. The carbon copy of Lohengrin, save for his hair. She struggles to swallow the lump in her throat. She curses Drosselmeyer again for allowing her to feel, now of all times. He did it on purpose; the man revells in tragedy. She wipes at her eyes in vain as the tears well up again. She looks up to see the mist closing in, shrouding the dancers in thick fog as it billows through the plaza. She swallows, she takes a deep breath. Be still, my heart. Be still. We have waited for this. The time has come. She glances at Fakir one last time before he too is engulfed, though not before he throws a look over his shoulder towards her fire. "My… son," she gasps, wretched, before sputtering and covering her mouth with her hand as she muffles her sobs. Her hand feels smaller, less solid. Her hair is no longer in that ridiculous hairstyle and is tied up in her usual high bun. She is small, her dress longer and bigger, pooling around her as her knees buckle and she drops to the floor, her voice younger when she whimpers.

All is silent around her as she cries as quietly as she can, the mist shifting like running water. The ground is odd — somehow, it feels both smooth and rough at once, digging into her knees painfully. She is alone. She is alone. Just like in the clockwork world with Drosselmeyer taunting her, she is completely and utterly alone. No prince, no knight, no could-have-been son… He did it again, she thinks wryly, sniffling. He took Lohengrin from me just as I realised it, and now again. He knew from the start. I never defied him after all. She removes her hand and wails pathetically, her head thrown back. Her cries echo through the empty, foggy space. She is alone.

Arms curl around her from behind.

She jumps, suppressing a shriek and only squeaking as a familiar voice says, "You made it, Edel."

She chokes on her renewed tears. "Lohen?" she blubbers, trying to turn in his embrace.

"I came to pick you up," he says. She sags, falling into his lap, gasping. He chuckles. "I've been watching over you."

"Y-You have?" she asks shrilly, the wise tone she had as a puppet completely lost among her burning pieces. She twists, sitting sideways to look up at him. He looks just like he did when she last saw him; the same long hair tied over his shoulder, mint strands and all, the green eyes soft and playful.

He quirks a dark eyebrow. "Did you think I'd leave you all alone?"

"No! That is…" she pauses for a moment, for the first time realising just how similar she and Ahiru truly are, "I didn't think you could. That Drosselmeyer would let you."

"That old windbag? Please. He can't control the dead." The statements sinks in, stirring her spirits from their dark abyss. He seems to notice. "You're free, Edel."

Her spirits, rather than lifting, stay put as she mumbles, "Fakir."

Lohengrin sighs. "Yes. I saw."

"He's… He looks like...!"

"I know," he whispers, stroking her head soothingly. "You don't have to say it. I know. We'll watch over him, too."

"We can?"

"Yes."

Her throat stays tight, her eyes welling up with tears for an entirely new reason as she looks up at him once more. "I thought I'd never see you again," she manages to choke out before sobbing into her hand.

Lohengrin says nothing. Instead, he shifts her off his lap so that she is sitting in front of him, facing him, and clasps her hands. She sniffles, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He kisses her knuckles, letting them drop into her lap but not letting go and looking up at her again. The look fixes her in place, breathless. Earnest. "No matter what universe we may find ourselves in, I will always find my way back to you."

She nods, eyes tightly shut as streams of tears flow, her long eyelashes dripping. He squeezes her hands, then pulls her slowly to her feet, letting go of one hand and pulling her along next to him. "Come on, cheer up. They're waiting for us." She nods again, pottering after him, their unspoken words grasped firmly between interwoven fingers and etched deep into her blooming heart.

* * *

The second of my two LohenTutu week Day 7 oneshots! This one is from another one of my AUs, based on a theory (also on my tumblr novahainn though it's way down but search Edel and it'll come up) that Edel is the original Tutu from the story (summary: when she vanished, that was actually Drosselmeyer taking her soul and he put it into the puppet, in very basic terms). Lohengrin's mint strands in his hair are dyed (magic, duh) from a time Edel mentioned how much she hated her hair colour and he dyed strands of his own hair to make her feel better. His hair is black, so the idea is that his black hair mixed with the mint coloured hair makes Fakir's dark green hair when he reincarnates; thus, Fakir looks like Lohengrin and Edel's son. This also makes Uzura like his actual real life sister rather than an adopted puppet sister, in a way. It's hard to explain, but someday I plan to write a whole fic about it, so I'll link it on this when I do. Hope you enjoyed!


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